The Cold Slope Poem by Joan Xie

A true tranquility has its own sound
When grass spouts from the wall
And vine crawls over the cold slope of the north

Behind the spiking shrubs, a small cabin I call home
Where soft hymn hummed by low eaves
And shadow shifts with moon-lit living room

A supper-call in the wind
Aroma drifting to and fro
We are snowed in, nowhere to go for

Nowhere to go home is all we have
Parents old children older but we are young
Chasing each other like flakes in the snow